


Custom Blend

by musegnome



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:36:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26309446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musegnome/pseuds/musegnome
Summary: Crowley fusses in the kitchen on the South Downs, putting together tea and breakfast for his angel on a special morning.This little slice of life was written with love for bisasterdi.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31
Collections: An Eventful Surprise





	Custom Blend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bisasterdi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bisasterdi/gifts).



> This fic is for the wonderful bisasterdi, with affection and gratitude for organizing the Good Omens fan events that have brought so many of us together, and for making the GO Events Server a welcome haven for us. You're the best.

Crowley went looking for the pears.

He knew they were somewhere in the pantry. He’d put them there just a few days ago. But as he surveyed the shelves, he admitted to himself that he might have a bit of… overstock.

He sorted through row after row of glass bottles and jars. Tea leaves, of course, one could never have too many of those in _this_ house. Rosehips and chamomile, lavender and mint. Dozens of dried herbs for cooking—there was parsley, rosemary, and thyme, but no sage yet to round out the quartet. Aziraphale had intercepted him walking through the door with the fresh leaves and insisted on using them for dinner instead of drying, and Crowley hadn’t had time to harvest any more. The sage had been delicious, though, browned in butter and spooned over pasta with roasted butternut squash and wilted greens from the garden, topped with goat cheese from the farmer’s market. Even Crowley had gone back for seconds. Aziraphale’s concoctions were definitely improving.

Jar after jar of honey from Aziraphale’s bees, labeled and dated in the angel’s neat script. The honey was really getting out of hand, Crowley thought. He wondered if Aziraphale knew it never spoiled. Maybe they could work out a trade with the goat cheese woman.

Here was the dried fruit, finally. Crowley shuffled through the stone fruits: apricots, cherries, peaches. He set aside a jar of plums and kept rummaging. Apples, yes, and four different kinds of berries.

But no pears.

He was about to give up when he saw them at last, peeking out from behind the bottles of vanilla beans soaking in vodka and bourbon. He’d have to ask himself later why he’d put them there; no time now. Aziraphale would be awake soon.

Crowley grabbed the pears and plums, along with black tea leaves; after brief consideration he took a jar of dried ginger slices for good measure. The first hints of autumn chill were seeping into the mornings now, and he thought today’s blend could use a little extra heat. For a second he wasn’t sure he was going to make it back to the kitchen counter without dropping something, but he managed to balance it all by the skin of his teeth.

He diced the dried fruit and ginger while the water heated. Once everything was steeping in the infuser with the tea, he had a few minutes to set up the tray. 

He’d gotten up extra early to bake scones. Cardamom, this batch. Crowley put three on a plate, and added a generous pat of butter – warmed soft with a quick, tiny miracle – and a little pot of the honey. Cutlery. Napkin. Teacup and saucer. The angel’s favourite china had sprays of tiny blue flowers. 

The teapot knew better than to let the tea get bitter or cold, and it was the last thing to go on the tray. Well… maybe not the last thing. This morning was special. 

In bare feet, Crowley hurried out to the garden, where the late summer roses were still flowering. He chose one in a warm gold-orange. A variety called “Golden Celebration”, if he remembered right. A pair of shears appeared in his hand with a whisper of thought, and he cut the prettiest bloom.

He fussed like an angel over the tray, shifting everything back and forth a millimetre at a time until it all looked perfect. As an afterthought he dashed back to the pantry for one of the bottles of bourbon vanilla. He couldn’t put it on the tray – it would completely spoil the presentation – but he tucked it under his elbow and carefully carried everything upstairs.

They’d picked up each other’s habits since they moved into the cottage: Crowley eating more, and Aziraphale taking to sleeping like – Well. A duck to water, he supposed.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite awake yet, but the blankets were rustling. Crowley set the tray down on the bedside table and pulled back the curtain. Not enough to blind his angel, but enough to flood the room with light; Aziraphale turned and yawned and stretched, pretty as a Disney princess. His sleepy smile lit Crowley up better than the sunshine.

“Morning, angel.” Crowley poured him a cup of tea, added a splash of vanilla. 

Aziraphale breathed in deep. “That smells marvellous, darling. What tea do we have today?”

“Ginger-plum-pear.”

“Wonderful.” His angel plucked the rose from the tray and held it to his nose. “And this. Lovely,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”

Crowley would have been crushed if he hadn’t caught the twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye. “I dunno. You tell me.”

Instead of telling him, Aziraphale tossed the rose back onto the tray (narrowly missing the butter) and held up the covers. “Come back to bed. Just for a bit.” 

Obediently, happily, Crowley went. Aziraphale scooted over to make room. He snuggled against the angel’s warm, plush side and tried to keep his cold feet out of the way, but Aziraphale gathered him in close. And yelped.

“Your feet are frozen! What have you been doing running around with no socks?” But he didn’t kick Crowley back out of bed; instead, he shuffled to tuck Crowley’s feet between his own toasty ones.

“Getting your flower.”

He hadn’t thought it possible for them to get any closer, but Aziraphale pulled him in snug and kissed him, soft and tender, still a little drowsy. They held each other tight for a long moment. 

“Your breakfast is going to get cold,” Crowley mumbled into the angel’s shoulder.

Aziraphale smiled. “I think we both know it won’t.” And it wouldn’t. They both knew, indeed.

Steeped in Aziraphale’s warmth, Crowley relaxed, loosened; felt the love pour out of himself; felt it returned, gentle and sweet.

He pressed a kiss behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Happy anniversary, angel.”

“Happy anniversary, my love.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally supposed to be about Crowley's hobby of making custom tea blends, in honor of bisasterdi's lovely story [Two Middle Aged (Presenting) Hobbyists Just Trying to Get Along](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21981928), but Crowley wanted a little more time to be soft instead. Hope you don't mind.


End file.
